The Dragon of Rohan
by French Pony
Summary: Following the first real fight of their marriage, Faramir learns a little bit about Éowyn's past, which prompts a change in their relationship.
1. The Necessary Cellar

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of J. R. R. Tolkien, nor any of the various dramatic incarnations thereof. No profit is being made from this work.

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Foreword

Greetings. Welcome to this story. This one was a long time in coming, and the themes and relationships between the characters evolved quite a bit from its initial conception, and I am glad to be able to present it at last.

There are really two stories in this one. The larger story takes place in Gondor and Ithilien just after the War of the Rings, during the spring and summer of the year 3020 of the Third Age. Much of it grew from a feeling I have had for a long time that the marriage of Faramir and Éowyn seems somewhat abrupt. I do not doubt that they love each other, but I do not think that they know each other particularly well. In addition, they come of very different national and cultural backgrounds, and it is logical to think that their assumptions about life and marriage might be very different in the beginning. They are well matched for each other, but I think that their early relationship must have been uneven as both husband and wife learned about and made allowances for the other.

The smaller story, the story-within-the-story, is actually the first of the two stories to be planned out. It is set in Rohan during the spring of 3001. You'll meet some familiar people here in rather different roles than those in which you've come to know them. It is partially an exercise in a certain kind of writing, which I will explain once the story is done. It is also an exploration of certain of the perils inherent to Middle Earth that have nothing at all to do with the forces of evil. The land can be as dangerous as any Dark Lord, and each land faces its own distinct dangers. These dangers in turn shape the character of the people who live on the land.

Enjoy the story. I will see you at the end.

1. The Necessary Cellar

"Just a little further," Faramir said reassuringly. He steered his wife expertly over the uneven ground. Éowyn stumbled occasionally, as she was blindfolded, but Faramir caught her each time, and she did not fall. "We are nearly there."

"It had better be absolutely as wonderful as you promised," Éowyn groused. "I am growing distinctly weary of this blindfold."

"Just a few steps more, love," Faramir said. "There is a creek here, and . . . up!" He picked her up and placed her on the other side of the creek. "Here we are," he said happily. He fumbled with the knot in the handkerchief for a moment, then triumphantly whipped the blindfold off of Éowyn's eyes. She blinked for a moment in the sunlight, and then her sky-blue eyes grew wide with astonishment.

"Oh, my," was all that she could choke out.

"Is it not beautiful?" Faramir asked. "It is the best valley in all of Ithilien, the perfect place to build our new home."

Éowyn breathed deeply and smelled the honeysuckle that crept up around the trees. She took in the secluded valley ringed with large shade trees and the creek that flowed through, bringing fresh, clear water. Something silver flashed. The creek appeared to be good for fishing as well. 

"It is perfect," she breathed. Faramir smiled.

"It is within a day's walk from the main road through Ithilien," he said, "although you would never know it since it is so quiet here. There is a good supply of water from that creek, and what you do not see is the piece of flat land over that ridge there that can be cleared and plowed for farmland."

"You mean to put a village here?"

"A village?" Faramir laughed. "Nay, no village. I plan to found at least a town that will, with luck, grow into a city. This is perfect countryside, ideal for settlement now that the danger from Mordor is so much less. The White City is beautiful, but it grows no smaller, and I fancy there would be plenty of families willing to leave the comforts of the city for a chance to farm such land."

"You mean to be a working Prince, then," Éowyn observed.

"Of course. Much as I love books and study, I was not raised to sit idle," said Faramir. "This part of Ithilien has the potential to rival the Pelennor as the breadbasket of Gondor, if it is administered correctly. The King gave the administration of Ithilien to me, and I intend to do that properly."

"Good," said Éowyn. "I would hate to think that I had somehow acquired an idle lord for a husband. Together we will make Ithilien bloom even more brightly than it already does." Another silver fish flashed by in the creek, and Éowyn scampered girlishly after it, raising a great splash. Faramir laughed. He knew he had chosen his land correctly. Ithilien would be good for him and Éowyn.

Faramir's life became very busy. In addition to his duties as Steward of Gondor, he now met nearly every day with the best architect he could find in all of Gondor. He drew maps of his valley, and took the architect to see it. Together, they began to design the dwelling for the Prince of Ithilien that was to be built in his valley.

Faramir did not want to waste a bit of the land, and decided to build the manor house out of the ridge that ran along one edge of the valley. Storage rooms and a library could be built directly into the living rock of the ridge, leaving the sun-drenched frame of the house for private quarters and council areas. He and the architect planned walkways and gardens, both practical and ornamental, which took advantage of the startling variety of flowers that grew in Ithilien. 

Gimli had recently persuaded a few families of Dwarves to move south and settle in the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, and Faramir felt certain that he could negotiate their services in the excavation and shaping of the storage areas for the manor. He took Gimli on a short trip to Ithilien to inspect the ridge. Gimli hemmed and hawed, knocking the stone face of the ridge, pressing himself up against it to listen, and examining the vegetation that grew around and on the rock face. At last, he finished his inspection.

"This is good rock," he announced with a satisfied air. "It will take quite a few storage chambers and a library as well. It would also be a fine place to place a dungeon, should you so desire."

"I will consider it," Faramir said. "I do not wish to be an overly harsh ruler, but the matter of justice will not go away."

"Finish your plans with your architect," Gimli said, "and then send word to me. I and those of my folk who have traveled here will journey to Ithilien and begin the excavations. You have chosen good land, Faramir. A city would thrive in this plot."

"For that encouragement I thank you," Faramir replied. He and Gimli set off back to the clearing where they had left a liveried page watching over the tall horse and the stubby pony that had brought them to Ithilien.

When they arrived back in Minas Tirith, Faramir and Gimli held a great meeting with the architect to put the finishing touches on the plans for the storage portion of the manor. The architect seemed pleased to have the skill of the Dwarves to aid in the realization of his designs, and overall, Faramir had high hopes for his new home. The meeting went smoothly, and construction was scheduled to begin in a fortnight -- just enough time to gather the Dwarves and bring them to Ithilien.

Faramir was admiring the plans one evening when Éowyn returned late from the Houses of Healing, where she was informally apprenticed to Mistress Ioreth. Éowyn had not had much of a chance to contribute to the planning of the manor house, as the Houses of Healing took up much of her time, and there was a tacit understanding between her and Faramir that the manor was to be something of a surprise for her.

This night, though, Faramir did not put the plans away when Éowyn arrived. The designs were complete, after all, and he wanted his wife to share in the anticipation of the house to be built.

"Éowyn," he called. "Come and see the designs for your new home. They were finished just this morning."

"Already?" she asked. "Let me see." She sat down across the table from Faramir, and he pushed the drawings over to her side. She turned them around and sat studying them for a long time. Faramir waited to hear her verdict, almost certain that she would be as pleased as he was, but wanting to hear it from her own lovely lips.

"It's practical," Éowyn said at last. This was normally the highest form of praise she bestowed on any object, and Faramir felt himself relax a little. Éowyn smiled and turned back to the plans. "The living quarters and the governance areas adjoin most gracefully, and the passages between those areas and the storage chambers are quite clever."

"And the kitchens are accessible to both areas of the house," Faramir pointed out. "They are well ventilated, and we will have a covered passageway between them and the yards to shelter the scullery staff from rain."

"That is a good idea," Éowyn said. "That was always a problem in Meduseld. The kitchen is on the downstream side of the house as well, I see. You and the architect have done well," she concluded. "There is only one thing missing in all of these drawings."

"And that is?"

"A cellar," Éowyn said. "You planned and schemed so cleverly that you forgot the cellar." She laughed a little, as though this were the silliest of accidents. Faramir frowned at her, puzzled.

"A cellar?" he asked. "This house has no need of a cellar. All the storage areas are to be set deep into the ridge, where they will be just as cool as if they were underground. There is no need to make extra work by digging a cellar, too."

The merriment faded from Éowyn's face. "You intend not to have a cellar at all?" she asked. Faramir nodded. Éowyn swallowed back what Faramir was sure was a cutting remark. "Might I ask you to reconsider?" she asked stiffly.

"There is no need for a cellar," Faramir repeated. "It would be merely an added expense, and, while I grant you that the Steward of Gondor is not exactly a pauper, I would prefer not to make unnecessary expenditures."

All the color in Éowyn's face concentrated itself into two flaming spots on her cheeks. "A cellar is an important part of a house!" she said. "It is most certainly not an unnecessary expense. This house wants a cellar, and I will not live in it unless it has one."

"You will have all the storage you require," Faramir replied, feeling his grasp of the situation slip away. "I say again, you do not need a cellar."

"Then I will not have the house!" Éowyn jumped to her feet and stormed out of the room. Faramir limply tried to gather up the plans for the manor, wondering just what had gone wrong.

He did not see Éowyn at breakfast the next morning; the butler informed him that she had eaten earlier and had left. He did not say where she had gone. Faramir prowled the corridors of their quarters in the Citadel, but no fiery Rohirric princess appeared. He realized that Éowyn was avoiding him, and somehow, that fact hurt him more than her sharp words of the night before. He tried to ignore the hurt, as he was meeting with the King later that day.

When he actually did get to the council chambers, he soon realized that he need not have bothered trying to conceal his feelings. Try as he might, Faramir could not force himself to be at all interested in the restoration of Osgiliath. The image of the ruined fortress kept drifting out of his head, to be replaced by Éowyn's face, alive with anger directed at him.

"Lord Faramir! Is it possible for you to repeat back what I just told you?"

Faramir looked up guiltily, jerked back to reality by Aragorn's remark. Feeling his face burn, he shook his head. "Nay, my Lord. I must apologize. I -- my mind was elsewhere."

"That much is certain." A twinkle replaced the annoyance in Aragorn's eyes. "Something is troubling you today, Faramir," he said. "Would you care to tell me about it?"

"I hardly think it is an important enough matter to consume your time," Faramir mumbled.

"But I think it is important," Aragorn responded. "Especially since it seems that I will get no further with you until whatever is troubling you has been resolved."

Faced with that logic, Faramir had to admit defeat. "Éowyn and I . . . had words last night," he admitted.

"Had words?"

"Yes. Not all of them were pleasant."

"Ah." Aragorn steepled his fingers and looked off into the middle distance for a moment. "What was the subject of these words, if I might be so bold?"

"They concerned our house, the one I mean to build in Ithilien," Faramir said. Aragorn looked at him and said nothing. "I engaged the best architect in Minas Tirith to design the manor," Faramir said. "We worked for several weeks to ensure that the building took the best advantage of the terrain, that it was useful and gracious, and that not an inch of space was wasted. Last night, I showed the plans to Éowyn, and she . . . she . . . "

"Yes? What did the White Lady do?"

"She asked if there was to be a cellar. I told here that there was no cellar, that the house had no need of a cellar. All the storerooms she could ever want are to be delved into the ridge. A cellar is unnecessary. And then she grew angry. We had words, and she left in a temper. I have not seen her since," Faramir finished.

"Ah." Aragorn was silent for a moment, digesting what Faramir had told him. Faramir began to feel mildly uncomfortable under the scrutiny; it reminded him of all the times he and Boromir had quarreled, and their father had broken up the fight and passed judgement upon them. Faramir sternly reminded himself that he was an adult now, and that it was bad form to squirm in front of a King.

At last, Aragorn seemed to come to a decision. He looked solemnly at Faramir. "It seems," he said, "that a cellar is indeed necessary. I do not think the house needs a cellar, but I do think that Éowyn needs a cellar. Do not forget, a house may be gracious and useful, but it is still a dwelling for people who must live inside it and who may have requirements other than grace and usefulness."

"But what could Éowyn possibly need a cellar for?" Faramir asked. "She has all the storage space she could possibly want."

"I do not know why Éowyn needs a cellar," Aragorn said. "But Éowyn knows. Ask her, and she will tell you."

"I will do as you say, my Lord," Faramir said softly.

"That is good. Perhaps you will learn something from it. Now, then, shall we turn our attention back to Osgiliath?"

When the meeting was over, Faramir stiffened his spine and went in search of Éowyn. She was not in their quarters, nor was she in the gardens with the ladies. He was about to go wander the streets of the White City in search of her, and then his hunting instincts kicked in. Why stalk the prey when the prey would come to him eventually? He settled himself down in the sitting room of their quarters to wait for her.

Faramir had waited for several hours, and was beginning to lose his nerve, when Éowyn finally appeared at the door. She began to shed her light spring cloak, then caught sight of him and hastily started to put the cloak on again. "Stay," Faramir blurted.

Éowyn paused for a moment and glared at him.

"Please," Faramir said. "Please, I have something I wish to say to you."

"Is it an apology?" Éowyn asked sharply.

"Part of it is an apology, yes."

"Then I will stay." Éowyn marched over to the far side of the room and primly seated herself upon a bench. Faramir took the hint and stayed where he was.

"Éowyn," he began. "I wish to apologize for our fight yesterday evening. I was wrong to snap at you, and I deeply regret having done so. Will you speak with me again?"

"It was a fair apology, so, yes, I will speak to you," Éowyn said. "Have you anything else to say?"

"My wife, I would ask a question of you. Will you tell me why it is that your heart is so set on having a cellar? For truly, none is necessary to the design of the house, yet it appears to be necessary to you. What use would you have for a cellar?"

Éowyn was silent for a moment before speaking. "It is not precisely a use that I would have for a cellar," she said after a while. "It would make the house feel . . . more secure . . . to me. All the houses in Rohan have cellars. I do not believe I could ever truly feel at peace living in a house that did not have one."

"But why?" Faramir persisted. "What is so special about an underground cellar?"

Éowyn stared at the fire, entranced by its flickering light. For a long while, Faramir did not think she would answer his question. He was just about to repeat it when she spoke. "My life was saved by a cellar once," she said softly. "I do not wish to live without one."

"Did you escape marauding Orcs in your cellar?" Faramir asked.

"Not Orcs," Éowyn said. "It was something much worse than Orcs, something that I do not think I shall ever forget as long as I live."

"Would you tell me, Lady?"

Éowyn sighed. "It is hardly the season for telling tales, husband," she said, quirking a small smile at him. "But since you seem so eager, and since you did make such a nice apology, I will tell you the tale. 

"It happened in the springtime. I had just reached six years of age and was full of spice and fire. I had been given my first pony, and I was eager to go out riding with my brother Éomer and his little friends. The spring had been stormy, and we had been kept inside all winter. I think that we had driven our mother to distraction with our antics, for she sent us far away on a picnic that day . . ."


	2. 17 April, 3001

**17 April, 3001 **

"By my stars, if those children do not leave this house today, I swear I will deliver them to the Sorceress of the Golden Wood!" Théodwyn cried in exasperation.

"I had thought to keep Éomer here at least," Éomund said gently. "There is armor to be polished and oiled, and that would occupy him for quite a while."

"And that would also leave me with Éowyn," Théodwyn replied, "who would cry and beg until I let her go to her brother, at which point she and Éomer would immediately get themselves into mischief, and nothing at all would get done in this house or in the armor shed."

From their hiding place in the woodbin, nine-year-old Éomer exchanged a smile with his six-year-old sister Éowyn. All winter long, they had waited patiently for the blizzards to let up so they could run outside for a few hours and play in the snow. There had never been enough time outside, though, and both children had serious cases of cabin fever by the time spring came. They had had high hopes for playing outdoors in the spring sunshine, but there had been precious little of that so far. It had been a dreary, wet spring, which was good for thirsty crops, but not so good for high-spirited Rohirric children desperate to stretch their legs.

"The armor can wait another day to be polished, I suppose," Éomund said slowly. "I could get a start on training the new roan colt . . ."

Éowyn tried to stifle a squeal of glee, but could not stop a small squeak from escaping her. Théodwyn marched over to the woodbin and threw open the cover. Two small dirty faces grinned up at her. Théodwyn smiled back through her annoyance.

"There, you see, Éomund?" she said. "They were just looking for mischief. Éomer! Éowyn! Get out of the woodbin and wash your faces. I will make a field lunch for you, and then you two will take your ponies and ride as far away as you can. Run and play all day, and do not darken this door before dusk."

"Hurray!" The two children scrambled out of the woodbin and raced to the kitchen, leaving a trail of chips and twigs in their wake. Théodwyn rolled her eyes and reached for a broom.

Shortly thereafter, Éomer and Éowyn rode their ponies at the head of a small party of Éomer's friends whose mothers had come to the same conclusion about spring days and small boys as had Théodwyn. Ponies and children were all in high spirits, and the day seemed to be off to a promising start. The sun was shining properly at last, several more lunches had been added to Éowyn's saddle baskets, and the grassy plain beckoned with promises of races and fun.

Suddenly, the children heard a rumbling noise behind them. Erkenbrand, bringing up the rear, turned around. "Ooh, look!" he cried.

An _éored_ of young Riders galloped by, led by Háma, heading out for the open land to practice maneuvers. Éomer and Éowyn caught a glimpse of their cousin Théodred among them, sitting tall and serious on his rangy horse Hruth. The children cheered as the soldiers passed them, earning themselves a few good-natured waves in return.

By the time the last soldier had galloped into the distance, the first game of the day had been chosen. "Follow me, Riders of Rohan!" Éomer cried, with as much authority as he could muster. "We are the best _éored_ ever to ride out onto the plain, and I am the Great Marshal of the Mark!"

"What about Éowyn?" Ceorl asked. "She can't be a Rider in the _éored_. She's too little."

"Am not!" Éowyn pouted.

"Silly," Erkenbrand said. "She has to be in the _éored_. She's got all our lunches on her pony."

"My cousin Théodred says that provisions are the importantest part of being in an _éored_," Éomer said authoritatively. 

"That means Éowyn's more important than you, Ceorl," Erkenbrand huffed. Ceorl stuck out his tongue for lack of a suitable retort.

"Éowyn's in the _éored_, and no arguing," Éomer declared. "Now, follow me. We have to go out and practice battling."

Everyone agreed that this was the best solution, and the miniature _éored_, complete with provisions, galloped out onto the wide grassland. The real _éored_ was drilling somewhere far from sight, so the children had all the land they could see to themselves. The best part was practicing close formation. Children and ponies huddled all together until Éomer gave a shout, at which point they all surged forward. The formation was soon a thing of the past, but they had a lovely gallop anyway, shrieking and laughing and enjoying the wind in their hair.

They were less successful with turning. Éomer had occasionally seen the way an _éored_ could turn around at full gallop in one graceful curve, like a flight of birds, but it seemed that there was some trick to doing it that he just couldn't master. He had a long stick with him to use as a spear, and every now and then, he would raise it high in the air and start to make a tight arc around. The little ponies, themselves no more trained in the arts of war than their riders, were confused by the sudden change of direction. They balked, ran in odd directions, nipped each other, and generally dissolved into chaos, accompanied by squeals of laughter from the children.

At last, worn out from a morning's hard play, Éowyn announced that she was hungry and wanted to stop. 

"That's enough maneuvering, Riders of Rohan," said Éomer, who was also ready to stop, but glad that Éowyn had said so first. The children dismounted and carefully picketed the ponies so that they could lunch on the good sweet grass. Éomer picketed Éowyn's pony, as Éowyn wasn't quite big enough to hold the pony, the picket and the large rock for pounding the picket stake. Meanwhile, Éowyn fished the lunches out of her saddle baskets. Erkenbrand produced a blanket to sit on, and soon the great grassland was silent except for the sounds of children and ponies eating. Even those sounds soon died away as the effects of exertion and full bellies took hold, and one by one, the children dropped off to sleep.

They awoke from their naps feeling strangely sluggish and heavy. The sky had clouded over, and the air seemed utterly still. Being slightly chilly and still a little sleepy, the children huddled together on Erkenbrand's blanket. Although no one suggested it, they began naturally to tell stories. Most of the stories were funny, but a few were adventurous. Éowyn even told a story about the adventures of a pony queen, and the boys listened respectfully.

Éomer was the last to tell a story. He had given the matter some thought while listening to the others, and he had decided to tell a grand adventure. Casting about for a suitable subject, he vaguely remembered a story that had come from the North country, far away and long ago.

"Long ago," he began, "there was a little town, just like Edoras."

"Did it have _éoreds_?" Éowyn asked.

"No, it didn't," Éomer said. "It was a long way away, and they didn't have _éoreds_ in that country. And they didn't have a king, either. They had a chief merchant-man, and they called him the Master."

"That's not right," Éothain objected. "They ought to have a king. It isn't a proper story without a king."

"Well, I'll get to that," Éomer said. "Now, be quiet so I can tell you what else they had." The others quieted down a little. "This town," Éomer went on, "had a problem. There was a mountain nearby, and in that mountain lived a dragon!"

Éowyn squeaked. She had heard of dragons from her father. They were enormous flying lizards that breathed clouds of fire and smoke and would eat a little girl right up in one mouthful. "There's no dragons here, right?" she asked nervously.

"No, there's not," Éomer said. Éowyn was comforted a little, but still, she wiggled a little closer to Erkenbrand on the blanket.

"It was a big dragon," Éomer told them. "It was as big as the whole entire town, and it was green and hot and slimy, and it breathed smoke and fire. And it had a treasure heap that it slept on -- gold and jewels, and it had a suit of armor for a pillow. Everyone wanted the treasure, but no one could have it because the dragon would eat them if they tried to get it.

"And then one day, an invisible burglar came and he stole the dragon's treasure right away while the dragon was sleeping. The dragon got mad, and flew over the town to attack it."

Éowyn shivered. She didn't like to think of the enormous fire-breathing dragon attacking all the mothers and fathers and big brothers and little girls in that town. Her mother had told her that there weren't any more dragons, but now she wasn't so sure. What would it be like if a dragon flew over Edoras, with its big dark body looming overhead, blotting out the sun? Sure enough, the sky did seem dark and threatening, and if she looked just right, the clouds did look like a giant green beast in the sky.

"The dragon flew all around, breathing fire and smoke and burning the town up," Éomer said. "Whoosh! Whoosh! All the houses caught on fire."

"That's why they ought to have a king," Éothain said. "If they had a king, he'd go and kill the dragon."

"I'm getting to that," Éomer told him. "But I have to tell about the dragon first, how it was big and dark and all the smoke and fire came out of it. And when it flapped its wings, it made a big wind that knocked everyone down."

Éowyn could feel that wind all around her, blowing her hair around her face. Éomer pushed his hair out of his eyes and went on with his story.

"And when it blew fire, there was a big cloud of smoke and such a loud roar like you've never heard in your life . . ."

It was too much for Éowyn. The sky had turned a threatening green, and she heard a wild roaring. She could see a dragon now, a big plume of darkness on the horizon, and it seemed to be coming right towards them. "Éomer!" she screamed. "Stop it, stop it! There's a dragon coming to attack us! Make it go away, Éomer!"

"Éowyn, be quiet," Éomer snapped. "There isn't any dragon. It's just a story."

"There is a dragon," Éowyn insisted. "Look, out there, it's a dragon!"

Just then, the ponies began to whinny and stamp and jump nervously on their picket lines. The children turned to see what was bothering their mounts and stared in open-mouthed horror as an enormous, roiling finger descended from the storm clouds and touched down on the plain. They watched, petrified, as the whirling storm quickly built up strength and moved toward them, faster than they had ever seen a storm move before.

"The dragon's coming to get us!" Éowyn wailed.

"That isn't a dragon," Ceorl said slowly. "That's a tornado!"

"We have to get back to Edoras, now!" Éomer said. "Get the ponies. We'll have to run for it."

The children scrambled to their feet, blanket and picnic baskets forgotten. They struggled with their ponies, which were rearing and plunging in panic now. Éothain managed to pull his pony's picket only to see the terrified beast drag the line from his hands and run away. He looked around wildly for aid, and spotted Ceorl, who had just managed to free his own pony. With a cry of "Me, too!" Éothain climbed on the pony behind Ceorl, and the two boys took off for Edoras. Erkenbrand followed them soon after, as did the other children, one by one. Éowyn hauled as hard as she could at her pony's picket stake, but Éomer had driven it firmly into the ground, and she couldn't put enough weight behind her pull to make a difference.

Éomer noticed his sister's distress and tried to turn his pony around to help her. The pony balked, not wishing to turn back into the face of the oncoming tornado. Finally, Éomer circled the pony around to Éowyn and tried to add his strength to her stubborn picket stake. Éowyn tugged at the stake, and Éomer tugged at the rope, and suddenly the picket burst free. Éowyn sat down hard with the force of it, and both ponies bolted. Éomer, struggling to keep his seat on his runaway pony, watched helplessly as Éowyn was dragged a few feet along the ground before she let go of the picket rope and her pony galloped into the distance.

Éowyn picked herself up and screamed as she saw the two ponies run, carrying her brother away and stranding her out on the open plain with an enormous smoky dragon bearing down on her. The wind buffeted her from all sides now, driving cold rain ahead of it. She could see lightning in the distance, and always, there was the awful roaring of the dragon in her ears. Terrified into action, Éowyn started running towards Edoras, desperate to escape the monster that was closing in on her.

"Ride, my _éored_, ride!" Háma called to his young charges. "Do not worry about formation! Ride to Edoras!" The tornado had come up suddenly while they were drilling. Háma had seen a similar storm in his younger days. He knew just how swift and deadly they could be and had broken off maneuvers instantly. Now the _éored_ thundered over the plain, each Rider stretched nearly flat over his horse's neck. Háma brought up the rear, trying to ensure that none of his riders became lost in the frenzied flight. Suddenly, Théodred peeled off from the pack.

"Where are you going?" Háma called. "Stay with the group!"

"That's Éowyn out there!" Théodred called back, his words nearly lost in the rushing wind. "I have to get her!"

Sure enough, Háma could just make out a little figure running frantically through the rain and darkness. He had absolutely no idea what the child was doing so far out from Edoras alone, but Éomund's daughter could not be abandoned to the storm's mercy. "Go get her, Théodred!" he called. "But be quick about it, and ride for home!"

Without a word, Théodred broke from the ranks and raced off towards his little cousin.

Éowyn's short six-year-old legs were tiring fast, but still she kept running. The thunder of the dragon was closer now, and she half expected the giant monster to swoop down behind her and gobble her up any instant. The thunder grew abruptly louder, and she shrieked in terror.

"Slow down, Éowyn," she heard. "It is I, Théodred!"

Éowyn slowed and turned around. Sure enough, there was her older cousin on his tall horse Hruth, galloping toward her. "Théodred!" she cried. "Help me, the dragon is going to eat me up!"

Théodred brought Hruth to a stop near Éowyn and dismounted. "Here I am, Éowyn," he said. "No dragon will eat you if I can help it." He scooped Éowyn up and tried to set her on his horse. Éowyn clung to him, trying not to cry, but unable to smother a few whimpers. 

"Éowyn," Théodred said with soft urgency, "you must let go for just an instant and mount the horse. I will be right behind you, I promise." Hruth gave a nervous snort, and Éowyn reluctantly allowed herself to be set on his back. Théodred swung up behind her. "Hold on, little one," he said. Éowyn gripped the saddle horn with both hands. Théodred locked one strong arm around her, took up the reins with his free hand, and they were off and running.

Éowyn felt dizzy from the great horse's speed and height. She clung to the saddle horn and screwed her eyes shut so that she wouldn't see the ground. Still, she could feel the pounding of the horse's hoofs, and she could hear Théodred's breath heavy in her ears. And always, there was the roar of the dragon storm behind them. "I want my mama!" she wailed.

"It will not be long before you see her again," Théodred assured her. "You must be brave just a little while longer." Éowyn nodded and tightened her grip on the saddle horn.

Théodred risked a glimpse backward over his shoulder. The tornado was gaining on them, spraying debris high into the air as it charged across the plain. He urged Hruth to even greater speed. The animal was running for home absolutely as fast as his four legs could carry him, and it was all that Théodred could do to keep his arm locked around Éowyn and control the horse one-handed. He bent low over the horse's neck, forcing Éowyn down with him. The noise of the horse's hoofs was now lost in the roar of the storm.

When Théodred looked up, Edoras had come into view. "Look, Éowyn!" he yelled above the howling wind. "There is Edoras! We are nearly home!" Hruth seemed to call up his last reserves of strength and gave an extra burst of speed. 

Éowyn unscrewed her eyes. Through the confusion of speed and horse and flying grass, she could just make out the walls and rooftops of Edoras. She concentrated on the city, and managed to catch a glimpse of a mob of horses and ponies at the gates. "What's that?" she yelled.

"That is my _éored_, and there are children on ponies with them," Théodred answered her. "Your brother and my comrades are safe. It is up to us now." 

The whirling storm was nearly on top of them now. Théodred could feel individual blades of grass and small pebbles stinging like whips against his back. A small shrub hurtled by his head and he bent low once again to protect Éowyn.

The blood pounded in Éowyn's ears. She could hardly breathe, squashed between the enormous mass of horse underneath her and Théodred's straining body on top of her. She was trying to be brave, but she wasn't sure how much longer she could stand the terror before she burst into tears. Her nose hit Hruth's neck, and she gulped back a sob. Just then, Théodred sat up. Éowyn could breathe again, and she opened her eyes to find that they had made it to Edoras and were clattering through the streets.

Debris from the town was starting to fly now, and Théodred wasted no time. When he arrived at the house of Éomund, he rode his horse right inside. He dismounted, pulled Éowyn down and looked around for any sign of the family. Seeing a trap door set into the floor, he pounded on it with his fist. "Open the door, Uncle Éomund!" he called. "It is Théodred and Éowyn!"

The trap door opened with a bang, and Éomund's face stared up at him. "Éowyn!" he cried. "Hand her down!" 

Théodred carefully lifted Éowyn over the cellar door, where Éomund's strong arms received his daughter and passed her to Théodwyn. Éowyn held her mother tightly, sobbing in relief and fear. Éomund looked back up. "Now you, Théodred," he said.

"But, my horse --"

"Now, brother-son!" Théodwyn snapped. "There is no time! Down in the cellar with you!" The little house started to shake. Théodred swung his legs into the trap door and slithered down into the cellar. Éomund pulled the trap door shut, bolted it, and herded Théodred into the corner with Théodwyn, Éowyn and Éomer. There was just enough time for Éomund to cover his family with his own body before the tornado hit, and the cries of the children were drowned out by the roar of the storm and the shattering of timber and stone.


	3. The Mark of the Dragon

**The Mark of the Dragon **

Éowyn's eyes were wide, and her voice shook a little as she recounted that awful afternoon. Faramir crossed the room to sit on the bench beside her and took her hands in his. Forgetting that she was cross with him, Éowyn squeezed his hands tightly before continuing with her tale.

"It felt like the storm went on forever," she said, "but I think it passed in only a few minutes. No noise of battle has ever struck as much fear into my heart as did that storm. When my father deemed it safe for us to emerge, we saw that our house had been reduced to nothing more than shards of wood and rock. Most of the other houses around us were destroyed as well. Half of Edoras had been flattened in that single storm."

Faramir gulped. "What of the other children?" he asked.

"All of those who accompanied my brother and me on our picnic were safe," Éowyn answered, "though Éothain had taken refuge in the house of Ceorl, and his mother feared him lost until the storm was past and they could be reunited. One of my friends was not so lucky. Olwyn was in her yard trying to get her chickens to safety when the storm hit, and her mother saw her fly straight up into the air and vanish with the entire flock. They did not find her body until the next evening, so far did the storm fling her."

Éowyn fell silent and gazed at the fire for a little while. Faramir tried to imagine what such a storm would have been like. He was familiar with flash flooding from spring rains, and with ordinary thunderstorms. He had heard reports of hurricanes in the Bay of Belfalas, though he had never experienced one himself. But never had he imagined a storm of whirling winds that charged across the open land, devouring everything in its path.

"What did you do after the storm?" he asked.

"We rebuilt Edoras, of course," Éowyn said. "My family and I moved into Meduseld for a while, for it was in the half of Edoras which the storm had not touched. I remember Théoden King sitting with Théodred and figuring how best to obtain the material to rebuild half a town. I believe that we imported much wood from Gondor, although I confess that I do not remember it very well."

"I remember," Faramir said. "I remember that I was allowed to observe certain of my father's council meetings that year. There was much discussion about loads of timber to be sent to Rohan. I did not see anything unusual about it at the time, but now that I look back, that timber must have been meant to rebuild Edoras."

"The houses were rebuilt," Éowyn said. "But it was long before our people and our herds recovered. Théodred lost his horse with our house, and it grieved him, for Hruth was a particularly fine steed. He never forgot that horse, and he often said that no later mount compared to Hruth."

"Did your family rebuild?"

"I remember that my father rebuilt our stables," Éowyn said, her gaze unfocused as she tried to recall the strange months after the tornado. "He intended to rebuild the house, but I do not recall if he ever finished it. We went on living in Meduseld, and it was but a year later that my father fell in battle. I do not recall if our new house was finished by then or not."

Faramir tentatively put an arm around Éowyn's shoulders, and she moved herself closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder. Faramir smiled and tightened the embrace. "I see that I find myself in your good graces again," he murmured.

Éowyn smiled a little. "I suppose I am not so angry with you now," she said. "I do not know exactly how it happened, but all my anger seems to have vanished, just like that storm."

"I do not believe that there will be such storms in Ithilien," Faramir told her. "I have patrolled that land for many years, and neither I nor any of the soldiers before me have ever reported such a dragon storm in that land."

"That is good," Éowyn declared. "I have already lived through one tornado, and I do not wish to test my courage against another."

"Your courage leaves nothing to be desired," Faramir assured her. "After all, you faced down a foe just as fearsome on the field of battle, and you were victorious."

"One may fight an enemy and win. There is no fighting a tornado," Éowyn said. "One can only retreat to a cellar and hope."

"Ah. Now we return to our original point of contention."

Éowyn sat up and scrubbed her hands across her face. When she faced Faramir again, her mouth was set in a thin, firm line. "I will have a cellar in that house, if I must travel to Ithilien and dig it myself."

Faramir opened his mouth to object, then shut it again. It struck him that he had perhaps been mistaken in his understanding of what kind of cellar Éowyn wanted. "You wish this cellar to be a shelter, not a storage room?" he asked.

Éowyn nodded. "It need not be large," she said. "But I wish to know that there is a place underground where I might take a family to shelter from an enemy -- or a storm," she added. "You have drawn a fine manor house, Faramir. But if it is ripped from the hillside, there is no protection for the chambers cut into the rock. All I ask is a small underground chamber, where I might be assured that children would be safe from harm."

Faramir got up and retrieved the plans for the manor from their box under the bed. He spread them out on the table and studied them for a while. He did not much care for having a trapdoor set into the floor of the reception hall or the morning chamber, and the iron ring would be a hazard in the corridors. But there was one small room off at the north end of the house that might suffice.

"Perhaps we can tunnel underneath the floor here," he said, pointing the room out to Éowyn on the plans. "I had thought to use the room for hanging cloaks in, but I think the trapdoor would fit here nicely."

"We may still hang cloaks there," Éowyn said. "The little room would have two uses, then, and it would be just as clever as the rest of the house."

Faramir smiled. "I will talk to Gimli and the architect about it in the morning," he told her. Éowyn gave him a real smile then, and he realized that she was just as glad as he that they were speaking again.

The architect took the minor change in the plans in stride, even pointing out the most efficient way for the trapdoor to open. "I believe it would be a simple thing to install such a cellar," he assured Faramir. "Though I would ask a week's leave to travel to Rohan and see their construction for myself."

"I suppose that a week's delay will not make too much difference," Faramir said. "Let it be so, then. Go to Meduseld and study the design of the cellars; I will write a letter recommending your errand to Éomer King. I am certain he will be only too glad to offer his assistance in such a project."

Éomer indeed proved eager to help, even sending Faramir a message that chided him gently for even thinking of building a house without a cellar in the first place. Faramir accepted the letter with good grace, but his cheer did not last long. He had already made one mistake in the design of the manor, and he began to examine every innovation and detail in the plans again. This time, though, he did not look on them with pride so much as with apprehension. He wanted nothing more than for everything about the manor to be perfect, a fitting gift for his bride. Every evening before Éowyn's return from the Houses of Healing, Faramir pored nervously over the plans, wondering if there was still a flaw in the design to be corrected or if he had left out some other important thing. 

The first Dwarves were arriving from Aglarond, and Faramir brooded as he watched them in the stable yard of the Citadel loading pony carts with building materials for the trip to Ithilien. In the center of the confusion, he noticed Gimli and the architect in a brief conference. As he moved closer, they looked up and broke off their conversation as they caught sight of him. Gimli hurried to meet him.

"Lord Faramir," he said jovially. "It is indeed an honor to see the Steward here. We are moving our tools and supplies today, and we expect to be building tomorrow."

"Good," Faramir said. "Then perhaps I am not yet too late. I wished to discuss one more aspect of the plans with --"

"Er, if I may suggest it," Gimli broke in, "I think that we should take a little walk. We need not go far. The fountain in the next courtyard will do. It is private and out of the way of the Dwarves." He took Faramir by the elbow and steered him out of the stable yard and into one of the Citadel's side gardens.

It was quieter in the garden, and the splashing of the fountain blocked most of the noise from the adjoining stable yard. Gimli deposited Faramir near the fountain and turned to face him, an unreadable expression on his weathered face. "I believe," he said, "that you were about to engage us in yet another lengthy talk about the placement of doors in the morning room, or the angle of the corridor outside the second guest chamber."

"I -- it was -- I mean --" Faramir stammered. Then he looked at his feet and felt his cheeks grow warm. "It was the angle of the window in the master bedchamber," he said quietly. "I wished to ensure that it was at the proper angle to admit the most light during the winter mornings."

Gimli laughed. "Never fear, Lord Steward," he wheezed. "You will have every drop of light that the sun provides, all the year round. You must only have faith in those you have entrusted to build your house."

"I do have faith in you and the builders," Faramir said. "And I have faith in the one who designed the house. What I lack is faith in the one who conceived of the place to begin with."

The smile faded from Gimli's face, though the twinkle remained in his eyes. "Ah," he said. "Now we come to the heart of the matter. You worry that, having forgotten one thing that would please your lady, you have forgotten another. Am I correct?"  


"You are, indeed, Master Dwarf," Faramir said. "I would not have thought a Dwarf to be so apt at reading the hearts of Men."

"One may learn new and interesting things in all the days that one walks the earth," Gimli commented. "And if you will hear me now, you will learn something else." He paused for a moment to ensure that Faramir was listening to him before he continued.

"All of your worries concern a house that does not yet exist. Therefore, your choices are endless, and the array is too varied for you to comprehend. Somehow, amidst all this variety, you have made the choices that pleased you the most. All you need do now is trust that your instincts are correct. And, as the house takes form and what was once dream becomes reality, you will see that you indeed made the right decisions, for your house will seem fair to your eyes."

"And then it will be the home that I wished for Éowyn and for myself?" Faramir asked.

"Hardly," Gimli replied. "It will be a house, but not yet a home. It will become a home when you dwell in peace there with your lady and the empty chambers and halls are filled with life and merriment. And when that happens, the angle of the window in the master bedchamber will no longer be important, for your home will be perfect." 

Faramir was silent for a moment. Gimli's observations seemed simple and straightforward, yet Faramir was amazed that such thoughts had not occurred to him before. The reasoning was beautifully seductive, and he wanted very much for it to be true. "I do wish to believe your words . . ." he began tentatively to Gimli.

"Do not take them on faith," Gimli broke in. "You may see it for yourself. We are now in the courtyard of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. This building has been occupied by many generations of Men, you among them. Now, the house has a new master. Would you not agree that the sensibility of the home is much altered, though the King lives in the same house as did you as a child?"

"It is very different," Faramir agreed. "Oftentimes, I feel that I hardly recognize the place, so different does it now seem."

"Well, then," Gimli said. "You see the importance of the inhabitants to a dwelling. You have completed the first step, my Lord Steward. You have conceived of a house most grand and gracious. Now it is time to put that step aside and attend to the next task, preparing a home with the Lady Éowyn."

Having said his piece, Gimli leaned back on the fountain and waited to see what effect his words would have on the Steward. For his part, Faramir turned away from the Dwarf and focused his attention on the gently splashing fountain. Gimli did not press him for a response, but neither did he leave. It took Faramir a moment to identify the strange lightness in his heart as relief that a worrisome burden had been lifted from his mind. The business of establishing a home in Ithilien seemed much easier now. Faramir turned back to Gimli and smiled.

"I thank you for your words, Master Dwarf," he said. "I believe they are words that I much needed to hear. I had often thought it to be a father's duty to advise his son in such matters, but I do not think that my father would have spoken so fairly as you have done."

"I think Boromir would have given you his counsel, had he lived," Gimli said. "He was a wiser man than he knew, and he cared for you a great deal." Faramir smiled a little, the memory of his older brother bittersweet in his heart.

"Perhaps," he replied. "But Boromir is not here, and you are with me now. And so I thank you for advising me as my brother would have done."

"Always," Gimli said. "You have but to ask, Lord Steward. Now I must return to my work upon your house. Go now to your lady and work upon your home."

There must have been a conspiracy between Gimli, the architect and Aragorn to keep Faramir away from the building site, for it seemed that he hardly ever had sufficient time to travel to Ithilien and observe the progress of the manor. Aragorn set him numerous assignments to research the smallest particulars of the government of Gondor for the past thousand years. Every time Faramir returned from the library with dust in his hair and sneezing over another armload of musty scrolls, Aragorn would laugh and explain that they both had much to learn if they wanted to rule their realms wisely. Although Faramir questioned Aragorn's motive for so much study, he could not deny that it really was necessary.

In the evenings, Faramir would sit with Éowyn and listen as she described the various hangings and furnishings she would have in each room. To his surprise, Faramir found that he quite enjoyed this imaginary decorating. He would sit happily holding a skein of yarn looped around his hands as Éowyn wound it into a ball and told him about a particular tapestry from Meduseld that Éomer had promised her as a remembrance of her home. In return, he mentioned several old pieces of furniture that were locked away in storage in the Citadel. Some of the furniture belonged to his family and not to the throne, and he promised Éowyn that he would select the very best of that furniture to take with them to Ithilien.

They spent many such evenings together in conversation. They shared stories of their childhoods, and Faramir learned far more about the ways of the Rohirrim than he had ever imagined. He told Éowyn all that he could remember of his mother, of her beauty and gentleness, and of her sweet scent that had lingered among her clothes for months after she died. Boromir had once come upon him sitting in their mother's wardrobe smelling her old dresses. Faramir had been horribly embarrassed, but Boromir had smiled and confessed that he, too, had crept into the wardrobe on occasion.

"The blue mantle you gave me is from your mother," Éowyn said. "I shall take special care of it."

"Already it begins to smell of you," Faramir told her. "It smells like you and my mother. I cannot think of anything that could be sweeter."

"When we have a daughter," Éowyn said with a mischievous smile, "I shall wrap her in the mantle. Then it will smell of your daughter as well, and it will be so sweet you will not know what to do with it."

"Save me!" Faramir laughed. Life was good, now that his worries about the manor house were out of his hands. For the first time, he began to feel as if he really knew his bride. He found himself able to relax in Éowyn's company, and he realized happily that she was becoming his friend as well as his beloved.

Near the end of the summer, Gimli announced that the construction of the Prince of Ithilien's manor was completed. The only thing that remained to be done was plaster and whitewash work. He wished to begin moving furniture to the building site so that it would be ready to move in as the rooms were finished. Faramir showed Éowyn the storage chambers where his family's belongings were kept, and over the course of two days, they selected the best pieces for transport to Ithilien. Éowyn and Arwen spent another day packing linens while Faramir sent a message to Éomer requesting that Éowyn's tapestry and other household belongings from Meduseld be sent to Minas Tirith.

The day that the wagons arrived from Rohan, they joined the caravan already packed with furniture and linen and set out for Ithilien. Now, Faramir and Éowyn began to pack clothes, books and smaller objects into trunks, for they knew that the day was near at hand when they would at last make the journey across country to settle in their new domain. Éowyn wrapped dishes carefully in Faramir's shirts, while Faramir packed his books with clean, dry straw.

The night before they were to depart, they ate bread and drank milk. Éowyn rinsed the plates and cups, wrapped them and put them on the top of the last trunk. Faramir sat on it as Éowyn latched it shut, and then they stood and looked around their bare apartment one last time. 

"My stomach feels fluttery," Éowyn said happily. Faramir smiled, secretly glad that he was not alone in feeling thus.

"Just think," he said, "tonight we sleep one last night at home. Tomorrow, we shall ride in the wains all day and then we will arrive at home once again."

Éowyn took his hand. "And the King and Queen will escort us there, so that it will be merry once we arrive. Now we must go to sleep, for we rise before dawn."

The next day, as they slowly rode over the hills towards Ithilien, Faramir alternated between gut-wrenching nervousness over the prospect of presenting the house to Éowyn and numbing boredom. Éowyn slept for much of the ride, and several times her soft breathing lulled Faramir to sleep as well. The sun had gone down and the chill of night had descended by the time they began to draw near. The cold woke Faramir, and he was just pulling a blanket over Éowyn when Aragorn called him softly.

"Look, through the trees. Do you see the lights?"

Faramir blinked. Sure enough, there were flickers of light visible among the trees. He prodded Éowyn awake, and they both rubbed the sleep out of their eyes in time to ride in through the gates and gasp at the sight that met their eyes.

Every window of the new manor house had a candle burning. Light spilled out of the open front door, where Gimli stood dressed in his finest clothing.

"Welcome, Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn!" he called. "Welcome to your home!" A company of Dwarves and Men surrounded the wagon, carrying the boxes and trunks into the house and assisting Arwen and Éowyn down to the ground. Faramir and Aragorn climbed out after them, and they walked into the entrance hall.

It was almost exactly as Faramir had pictured it, cozy near the door, then widening gradually to open into the great room. A fire was roaring merrily in the hearth, and a bright Rohirric tapestry from Meduseld dominated the wall above. The table was laid with bright pewter dishes, and Faramir could smell something appetizing waiting in the servery beyond.

"We took the liberty of unpacking some of the boxes and preparing a meal in your kitchen, Lord Faramir," Gimli explained. "I had thought that the place should appear welcoming and homely from the start."

"You have outdone yourself, Master Gimli," Faramir murmured, stunned. He wandered through some of the halls near the great room. He knew them, and yet he did not. He knew where every curve and angle ought to be, and they were there, but now he was seeing them for the first time, and their reality was strange in its familiarity. Éowyn, by now thoroughly awake, strode eagerly through the house, running up the steps to look at the second floor before returning downstairs to find the cellar. Faramir had a small moment of panic when he could not find her, but he heard the thump of the trap door, and Éowyn emerged from the cellar.

"It is paneled in wood," she said, "and there are benches along the wall to sit on. It is even better than the one in Meduseld. The house is perfect, Faramir!"

At these words, something broke free in Faramir, and he laughed out loud. With Éowyn's approval, the entire house seemed to breathe easier, and its warmth and welcome finally permeated his bones and allowed him to relax. "It is perfect," he agreed. "My thanks to you and your people, Master Gimli. You will be richly rewarded."

"But no reward will be sweeter than the approval of the lady," Gimli replied gallantly. "Now then, Lord Faramir, will you keep your King waiting? It has been an idle day of travel for you, but as for us, we have worked hard all day, and a good dinner would be most welcome."

"Of course," Faramir said. He gestured to the table. "Will it please my Lord and my Lady and our gracious guests to dine at our table."

"It would indeed, Lord Prince," Aragorn replied. He took Arwen's arm to escort her to the table. Faramir seated Éowyn at the head, with Aragorn on her right and Arwen on her left, then signaled to the waitstaff in the servery. He sat down at the foot of the table and looked at Éowyn. She smiled regally at him, her hair glowing and her eyes shining in the firelight. It seemed to Faramir then that they were truly wed, lord and lady together of a home they could call their own.

END

****

Afterword

Thanks to everyone who has read this story. I am especially gratified by all the comments on the children. I must confess, I do enjoy writing little kids, especially in such an adult-oriented world as this one.

Tornadoes are among the most destructive storms on earth. They are born in the same type of storm system, a "supercell," that spawns thunderstorms. Although they are most prevalent in the portion of the American Midwest known as "Tornado Alley," it is possible for a tornado to strike anywhere in the world, on any terrain. There is even a record of one tornado striking in the Rocky Mountains. There are any number of myths and legends concerning various geographical features said to be able to stop a tornado. None of them are true. Tornadoes have jumped over hills, scraped valleys, and even crossed the Mississippi River.

Part of the reason that I wanted to write about a tornado was to try my hand at a certain type of writing; that is, writing a story in which the villain's role is taken by an impersonal force of nature. Even though the story is about this terrible dragon storm, the storm itself cannot be the focus of the story, as it is not alive and has no agency. Rather, the exercise is to tell the story of the storm through the people who experienced it and their personal dramas and reactions. That was the task I set myself with the second chapter, and I do hope that I have succeeded.

Thanks again for reading. I'll see you next time!


End file.
